**Jasmine's Log, Supplemental**
**Roth Keep, Roth Vale, Albion**
**Rothgard Fall plus 96 days (estimated)**
Wings fold at ancestral gates.
Familiar stone, familiar eyes.
A princess returns, burdened yet hopeful.
Uncle's warmth awaits.
Verdant descended in a wide, controlled spiral, his powerful wings catching the late afternoon thermals rising from the fertile Roth Vale. The lesser forest dragon's shadow swept across neatly terraced fields and stone-walled orchards as he angled toward the imposing gates of Roth Keep. The ancient fortress rose from a gentle hill, its gray stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and rain, banners of deep crimson and gold fluttering from the towers. Jasmine's heart tightened at the sight—home, or the closest thing she had left after Rothgard's fall.
The dragon landed with graceful precision on the wide, flagstone courtyard just outside the main gate, his claws clicking softly against the stone. Guards in Roth livery snapped to attention, eyes widening at the sight of the massive creature and the young woman dismounting from its back. Before Jasmine could speak, the heavy oak gates creaked open, and an elderly man in immaculate butler's attire stepped forward, his posture straight despite his years.
"Princess Jasmine," the head butler, Mr. Winston Caldwell, greeted her with warm familiarity, a genuine smile breaking through his usual composed demeanor. "Look at you—grown into such a fine young woman since the last we met. The last time I saw you, you were barely tall enough to reach the library shelves. And now you arrive on dragonback like something out of the old legends. Your father would be proud." Jasmine returned the smile, a measure of tension easing at the familiar voice that carried memories of safer, simpler days. "Mr. Caldwell, it is good to see a friendly face. I wish the circumstances were happier. My fleet anchors outside Ebonridge Harbor. We need my uncle's help."
The butler nodded gravely, his eyes softening with understanding. "Of course, my lady. Lord Blackthorn sent word ahead. Come, I will take you to Count Reginald at once. He has been expecting you." As they walked through the gates and into the keep's inner courtyard, Caldwell fell into step beside her, his voice low and conversational. "The lords along the border are under considerable pressure from the refugee influx. Many are struggling to feed and house the displaced, and tensions are rising. Your uncle has been working tirelessly—organizing supply lines, negotiating with the southern counts, and trying to keep the peace. The gossip among the nobility is relentless, of course. Some whisper that Rothgard's fall was inevitable, and others fear the Imperia will turn their eyes westward next. But your uncle remains steadfast. He has already begun preparing quarters and provisions for your people, should they be granted passage."
Jasmine listened intently, her boots echoing on the polished stone floors as they moved through the familiar corridors lined with ancestral portraits and banners. The weight of responsibility felt a little lighter knowing her uncle was already acting. "He has always been the steady one in the family," she said quietly. "I only hope I can convince Lord Blackthorn to let us through without too many concessions."
Caldwell gave her a reassuring glance. "If anyone can, it is you, my lady. Your uncle has spoken often of your courage since the fall. He will be relieved to see you safe."
They reached the private solar overlooking the vale. The doors opened, and there stood Count Reginald Roth—tall, broad-shouldered, with the same dark hair and sharp Roth features as Jasmine, though streaked with silver at the temples. The moment he saw her, his stern expression melted into one of pure, warm relief. He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her into a tight embrace, the kind only family could give." Jasmine," he said, voice thick with emotion as he held her at arm's length to look at her. "My dear girl. When the riders brought word of Rothgard's fall, I feared the worst. But here you are—alive, strong, and still fighting. I am so very proud of you."
The simple, genuine warmth in his words eased the knot of tension that had lived in her chest since the fall. For the first time in weeks, Jasmine felt truly safe. "Uncle," she whispered, voice cracking slightly. "I brought as many as I could. Hundreds of our people—wounded, families, children. They followed me across the sea on nothing but hope. Lord Blackthorn demands your personal assurance before he will allow passage. He fears they will become a burden on his lands."
Count Reginald's expression hardened with resolve, though his eyes remained kind as he guided her to a seat by the window. "Then he shall have it. I will send the guarantee at once. Your people are Roth blood, even if only in spirit now. We will make room, we will share what we have. You have carried them this far, my niece. Let me help carry them the rest of the way." Jasmine felt the weight lift further, replaced by quiet gratitude. Outside, Verdant waited patiently in the courtyard, and far to the north her fleet still rode at anchor. But here, in her uncle's solar, with his steady presence and unwavering support, the path forward suddenly felt possible.
The dragon rested.
The fleet waited.
Family stood together.